


The Night We Met

by TheNightComesDown



Series: The Night We Met - The Pacific [1]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Agriculture, Alabama, M/M, New Orleans, The Pacific, The Pacific AU, World War II, farm life, farming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 08:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18312170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: In the summer of 1941, Eugene Sledge leaves Mobile to work on his master's thesis. While gathering data for his studies on an Alabama farm, he meets Merriell Shelton, the farm's foreman, and they quickly fall for each other.





	The Night We Met

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy this AU I've created, where Sledge and Snafu knew each other before joining the Corps. There will still be a lot of aspects of the story that fit with the happenings of the show, but I've definitely taken liberties with the story, timeline, and characters.
> 
> NOTE: The word "negro" is used in reference to African American characters, as this was the terminology at the time the story is set. In no way do I mean to perpetuate the modern use of language that is inappropriate or insensitive in terms of race and PoC.

**RURAL ALABAMA // SUMMER, 1941**  
In the cool of the morning, just as the dark night began its shift towards the blue-grey twilight, the farm workers began to shift in their bunks, slowly waking up for the day. Merriell Shelton, a curly-haired Cajun, rolled out of bed and lit the kerosene lamps that hung on each wall. He estimated that it wasn’t quite 5:00 yet, but if they wanted to eat breakfast between milking the cows and heading out into the fields, they needed to be up in the next few minutes. As the foreman of the Williams’ farm, it was his responsibility to ensure the other men were getting their tasks done on time and to the best of their ability.

“Mawnin’, gentlemen,” Merriell yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “It’s high time y’all get ya asses outta bed so we can get to milkin’ them cows.” His greeting was met with groans, a request for ‘5 more minutes’, and a pillow projectile, which was launched at his head from across the room. The New Orleans native began to whistle a jazzy tune, much to the annoyance of his groggy men. 

“Shut the hell up, Shelton, will ya?” one man growled, pressing his pillow over his head to block out the sound. 

“No sir,” he grinned, “I certainly will not. I’ve got my mind on eggs and sausage, and if you assholes don’t get movin’, I ain’t gonna get none o’ the Missus’ fine cookin’ today.” Merriell stripped out of his shorts, dressing in his work clothes before even the first man managed to pull himself out of bed, and stepped out of the bunkhouse. He waltzed across the yard, making his way towards the main house, where the Williams’ lived, and served meals every day. 

Out back behind the house was a small washhouse, where the farmhands could bathe, shave, and brush their teeth for the day. Merriell rubbed a hand across his jaw, feeling a layer of stubble thin enough that he decided not to bother pulling out his straight razor. Mr. Williams, who owned and operated the family farm, had no rules about his employees’ grooming habits, other than that they had to be presentable at the table. If his wife was unsatisfied with their appearance, she made it known, and saw that it was corrected before food was served to the offender. 

In the main house, a light flicked on in the attic bedroom, drawing Merriell’s attention. He stood outside the washhouse door, watching the window for signs of movement. A moment later, a man around his age, his red-brown hair sticking up in all directions, appeared at the window and waved down to him, as was their morning routine. Merriell raised a hand in reply, waiting until Eugene disappeared from view before stepping into the washhouse. 

* * * * * 

“Good mornin’, Gene,” Mrs. Williams smiled as Eugene Sledge, her boarding student, came downstairs for the day. “How’d you sleep?” She set out a heaping plate of eggs, sausage and toast on the table for him, and a small bowl of grits beside it. A pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice sat in the centre of the table, along with a butter dish, a carafe of coffee, and small jars of honey and jam for the toast. 

“Mornin’, ma’am,” Eugene replied, taking his seat. “Slept very well, thank you. Breakfast sure smells delicious, as always.” The compliment seemed to please his hostess, who continued to bustle about the kitchen in preparation for feeding the farmhands when they came in from milking, any time now. Eugene ran a hand through his ruddy brown hair, which he had managed to tame, even after waking up with horrendous bedhead. 

“Big plans for the day?” Mrs. Williams wondered aloud, slightly distracted by scrambling a panful of eggs. “I know Tom’s plannin’ on checking the crops for signs of infestation to later today, so if you were interested in goin’ with him, let him know when he comes in for breakfast.” Eugene nodded appreciatively, refraining from responding to her with a mouthful of toast. 

Mr. and Mrs. Tom Williams had very kindly offered to house him while he collected data and research observations for his master’s thesis over the summer. They had never had any children, but when the opportunity came to have a young man spend the summer as their guest, they set up a simple bedroom in the gabled attic and treated him as if he were their own. 

For Eugene, it had been a fantastic opportunity to get away from Mobile for the summer and learn a new thing or two. Mr. Williams had been a farmer his entire life; he had a tremendous amount of knowledge and experience to share with Eugene, and was eager to do so. He had guided the young man through the planting season, had taught him how to operate horse-drawn equipment, and would soon allow him to coordinate the harvest. Mr. Williams took great pride in his work and his land, and was glad to have someone to pass his knowledge on to, as he had no son to inherit the family farm. 

After the harvest, Eugene would return to school to complete his master’s thesis, which would focus on farming methods for reducing insect-related crop loss. Subsistence farming was on the out, and many farmers were turning to monoculture farming, where field after field would be planted with the same crop. The trouble with this was that insects now had a massive, uninterrupted food source. Entire farms were devastated by infestations, sometimes losing their entire year’s work to grasshoppers. 

As Mr. Williams had explained to Eugene, there were no effective pesticides in terms of chemicals as of yet. Arsenic, used by many farmers in an attempt to quell the onslaught of crop-eating insects, was poisonous to humans as well. Eugene wanted his thesis to reflect the fact that technological advances in farming might be doing more harm than good. Farms like the Williams’, which continued to plant smaller portions of a variety of crops, suffered fewer losses than the monoculture-driven farms. This subject allowed Eugene to combine his interest in plants and insects and investigate practical applications to agricultural issues; his work could effect the entire farming industry, he felt. 

Heavy footsteps clomped across the front porch, and the screen door swung open, admitting the farmhands to the kitchen, some of whom were still yawning after having woken up an hour before. Eugene snapped out of his thesis-related daydreams and slid to the left, making space on the bench seat beside him. The mumbled words of “Mornin’ Missus,” and, “Thanks, Missus,” chorused as each man took a plate and was served his portion of breakfast. Merriell, running a hand through his short curls, took the seat to Eugene’s right, which was saved for him every morning. The other men knew better than to take Merriell’s spot. 

“Aren’t you lookin’ academic today, Gene,” Merriell drawled, dipping his spoon into Eugene’s grits before he could smack his hand away. “All dressed up in your collared shirt and slacks, like you was givin’ a speech in front o’ the whole state o’ Alabama.” He tugged on Eugene’s collar, teasing him; Eugene just rolled his eyes. 

“You can wait two minutes for your own grits,” he grumbled, his cheeks flushing pink as Merriell laid a hand on his knee beneath the table. This had become a daily occurrence, much like the wave they exchanged through the window each morning. The other farmhands either didn’t see the subtle display of affection, or ignored it, not caring to get involved in whatever shenanigans their foreman was up to with the Williams’ houseguest. 

Seated on the bench across the table from them were two Negro farmhands, both quietly shovelling their breakfast down. Mr. and Mrs. Williams, despite the social atmosphere of the time, had refused to segregate their employees, and didn’t pay coloured farmhands any less than white workers. Anyone was welcome into their home and at their table, and if someone didn’t like that, they could go elsewhere for work. 

“Say, Charlie,” Eugene asked the man directly across from him, “heard anything interesting on the radio lately? Any news on the Western front?” The broad-chested fellow nodded in reply, swallowing a sip of coffee before answering. 

“Roosevelt and Churchill signed a document about their expectations for after the war,” he shared, his voice low and thoughtful. “Democratic gov’ments, fewer trade restrictions, disarmin’ aggressors, that sort of thing.” Eugene leaned forward with interest, eager to hear more; Charlie was always in the loop, as he listened to the radio with Mr. Williams every evening while they smoked out on the porch. 

“Axis powers ‘ll never agree to it, though,” Charlie frowned. “Hitler and Mussolini don’t have any interest or reason in givin’ up their power.” Merriell scarfed up the last of his eggs. “Any o’ you boys thinkin’ ‘bout enlistin’ if we get into it?” Merriell inquired, glancing around the table. Beside him, Eugene deflated, sinking down into his seat. 

“What’s wrong, Gene?” Big Jim asked, scraping a toothpick between his teeth absentmindedly. He was an observant man, and had noticed the sudden change in Eugene’s demeanour. 

“I couldn’t enlist, even if I wanted to,” Eugene sulked. “I’ve had a heart murmur all my life, and they won’t take men with heart conditions. Too risky.” 

“Eugene, dear,” Mrs. Williams consoled, tilting her head in sympathy, “War is a cruel thing, as Mr. Williams can attest. He was 17 when he fought at Belleau Wood in France, and he’ll be the first to tell young men such as yourself to stay away from all that violence unless you absolutely must go.” 

Eugene nodded miserably, not wanting to argue with his hostess. It was all well and good for her to say that; no one would ever judge her for not joining up if worst came to worst. Unmarried women could join the Army Nurse Corps during the Great War, but it was by no means socially expected in the way that men were expected to contribute to the fight. 

“Burn that bridge if it comes to it, son,” Mr. Williams advised, stepping into the kitchen. He had been standing outside on the porch, listening through the screen door. “There’s more to a man than his ability hold a rifle.” Mr. Williams poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the kitchen counter, waiting for the men to finish their breakfast. 

“Wise words, sir,” Big Jim acknowledged solemnly. 

* * * * * 

“Best way to check for eggs is by turnin’ the leaves over,” Mr. Williams explained, running his index finger along the central vein of a thick corn leaf. “They’ll lay ‘em in groups, and they’re piled on each other, kinda like shingles on a roof.” Eugene nodded, scribbling a quick note in his field journal. He had a long list of indicators of crop infestation by a variety of pests. Corn borers, aphids, bacteria and fungi – you name it, Mr. Williams knew what to look for, and how to avoid it. 

Adjusting the straps of his suspenders, Mr. Williams slapped a hand against the side of his pick-up truck; this was his indicator that he was ready to head back to the house for the day. He and Eugene had stopped to check on every one of his fields. Corn was nearly waist-high now, the cotton bloom was in full swing, and the large soybean crop Eugene had helped to plant looked to be on-schedule for harvest. 

“Sir, can I ask you a question?” Eugene inquired, opening his door. He sat down on the hot leather bench and waited for the farmer to take his place at the wheel. Mr. William’s limp, which he’d acquired during his time in the Army, was acting up today, so it took him a bit longer than usual to get from place to place. 

“Shoot, son,” Mr. Williams replied, breathing hard as he slammed his door shut. Beside him, Eugene was hesitant. He had never brought this topic up with the man, mostly out of sensitivity for his service record. Eugene’s own father had never wanted to discuss his own time as an Army medic; what he had shared was that he still had the occasional nightmare, and would wake up in a cold sweat, convinced that he had been shot dead. 

“Do you think the United States will enter the war at some point, sir?” Eugene finally spat out, gripping his journal tightly in his lap. The truck roared to life as Mr. Williams turned the key in the ignition and put it into gear. He was silent, thinking through his answer thoroughly before responding. 

“To tell you the truth, Gene,” he murmured, rolling his window down to let in some fresh air, “I have a feeling that it’ll take something very serious to convince Roosevelt to bring us into the fight. We had well over 100,000 casualties, and 300,000 more than that wounded or sick. That’s more than all the people in Birmingham and Mobile combined.” 

The truck kicked up a brown cloud of dust as the tires dug into the dirt road. Pebbles rattled in the wheel well, nearly drowning out the older man’s words. 

“So…you have a feeling?” Eugene frowned, glancing over to Mr. Williams, who knuckles were white with the force he was using to grip the steering wheel. “What kind o’ feeling, sir?” 

“A bad one, Gene,” he said gruffly, leaning his head out the window to spit. “And I hope I’m wrong. The technology we’ve got nowadays could put a lot more lives in jeopardy than ever before.” Mr. William’s eyebrows were furrowed, and a sharp crease appeared on his forehead. “A storm’s a brewin’ in the world, though, and I worry about what that means for young men like you.” 

“If something’s going to happen, let it come after harvest season,” Eugene sighed, turning to watch out his window as the truck ripped back down the road toward the house. 

“I pray for that every night,” Mr. Williams admitted, digging a cigarette from the pocket of his trousers. He placed it between his lips, not bothering to light it until he parked behind the barn. 

As Eugene stepped down from the truck, he glanced up to see the loft doors wide open. Merriell and Big Jim forked straw down the chutes, dropping fresh bedding into the stalls below. The farmhands had drawn straws earlier in the day, with Charlie and Lafayette (nicknamed after his hometown) drawing short; they had spent the morning mucking stalls, while Merriell and Big Jim had taken the cows out to pasture. 

“Need a hand, fellas?” Eugene called up to them, rolling his sleeves to his elbows. If he and Mr. Williams returned early from their field surveys, he often offered to help the hands. It was only fair that he do his share to earn his keep, he felt. 

“Not in those slacks,” Merriell smirked, poking his head out the loft doors. “Your mama would lose her marbles if she saw you sweatin’ through the nice clothes she bought for ya.” Eugene huffed in annoyance, storming off towards the house to change. Merriell always had to bring up Eugene’s family financial situation, as if coming from old money made it impossible to have solid work ethic. 

“Let him be, Shelton,” Big Jim chastised his foreman, scowling at him from across the loft. “Gene doesn’t have to come out here at all, but he does anyway. Cut him some slack.” Merriell huffed in response, turning back to the stack of straw he’d been scooping from. Not two minutes later, Eugene scaled the ladder from the main floor of the barn up to the loft, now dressed in a short-sleeve button-up tucked into slightly worn trousers. Merriell nodded approvingly, gesturing with his thumb towards a spare pitchfork. 

“Did I miss anything exciting this morning?” Eugene asked, moving to the opposite side of the loft. Big Jim’s loud chuckle echoed around the gabled ceiling of the barn. 

“You sure did,” the man informed him, shaking his head wryly. “Shelton slipped on a cow pie ‘n wrecked his favourite shirt, not even 20 minutes into the day.” Eugene glanced over to Merriell, who was muttering bitterly to himself. This wasn’t exactly a story he wanted shared with everyone; it had been an embarrassing ordeal, and he’d been delayed half an hour while he went back to the washhouse and tried to scrub the smell of shit from his skin. 

“That sounds like a _really shitty situation_ , Mer,” Eugene teased, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing. He knew Merriell wouldn’t appreciate the comment, but so long as he didn’t push things too far, the man wouldn’t be angry. Big Jim glanced between the two of them, raising an eyebrow at Eugene’s use of a nickname for the foreman. Everyone else called him by his last name, feeling that his first name was too close to sounding like ‘Mary’ to use it. 

“Keep on laughin’, Gene,” the curly-haired man snarked, wrinkling his nose with displeasure. “I’m sure I got all sorts o’ stories about dumb shit you done this summer all the boys would just _love_ to hear.” Eugene’s eyes snapped up to meet Merriell’s, glaring daggers at him. He wouldn’t dare share something that had happened between them in private; at least, Eugene hoped he wouldn’t. The foreman certainly wasn’t known for keeping quiet about his personal life. 

“Supper!” Mrs. Williams called shrilly from the porch of the main house. “Come on down, boys!” Jim wiped a hand across his forehead and beneath his eyes, clearing beads of sweat from his dark skin. He hung his pitchfork from one of the hooks on the loft wall and climbed down the ladder, eager to wash up before supper. Mrs. Williams insisted that the men be presentable at the table and not stink of cow dung or rank body odour. 

“You wouldn’t tell,” Eugene murmured, gripping his pitchfork tightly in his hand. He watched Merriell carefully, his expression uncertain. As soon as Big Jim’s footsteps on the cement barn floor below faded, Merriell’s eyes softened, and he shook his head at his friend. 

“I wouldn’t,” he agreed, lifting the corner of the bandana hanging loosely around his neck to wipe the sweat from his upper lip. “I’m not that kind of man.” Eugene let out a breath of relief, relaxing his grip on the tool in his hand. 

“Supper and then a walk?” Eugene confirmed, tugging nervously at his collar. Merriell leaned out the loft doors, checking for any passers-by and spat the wad of mint leaves he’d been chewing onto the ground below. 

“Supper and a walk,” Merriell repeated, tossing his pitchfork onto the straw stack. He crossed the loft in a few strides, stopping short before Eugene. Both men were of a similar height, with the Cajun standing just a hair taller than his Mobile-raised counterpart. Not caring to make Mrs. Williams and the other men wait, Merriell reached out and grabbed a fistful of Eugene’s shirt and yanked him forward. As their lips met, Eugene revelled in the familiar, bittersweet mix of tobacco and mint on Merriell’s tongue. 

The kiss ended almost as soon as it had started. Neither man wanted to risk being caught in such a blatant display of affection, but this end-of-the-day moment had become another pattern of theirs over the summer. The barn had been the location of many a late-night meeting between the two, so it was only natural that they felt comfortable with this small gesture in the relative privacy of the hayloft. 

“What’s for supper tonight?” Eugene asked over his shoulder, walking ahead of Merriell towards the barn ladder. 

“Missus said she’d make jambalaya, so long as Lafayette and I promised not to write home to our mamas and complain ‘bout it,” Merriell grinned, trailing behind him. “My mama always said that only a girl raised on the bayou can make it right, but I’ll give Missus a fair shot.” 

“She’s never served anythin’ I didn’t like,” Eugene declared, skipping the last few rungs and jumping to the ground. “Just ‘cause she doesn’t use alligator doesn’t mean it won’t be good, Mer.” His friend barked out a laugh. 

“That’s just insultin’, Gene. Everyone knows that gator belongs in gumbo, ‘longside some crawfish.” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “You ‘bama boys don’t know a single thing about Cajun cookin’, do you?” 

“Believe it or not, my mama’s never cooked alligator or crawfish.” 

“Are you really tellin’ me that your mama’s ever lifted a finger to cook anything in her life?” Merriell smirked, punching Eugene lightly on the arm as they walked towards the main house. “I think what you’re meanin’ to say is that Miss Lucy who worked in your mama’s kitchen never cooked gator or crawfish.” As soon as the words had left his mouth, Merriell could see in his friend’s face that he’d gone too far. 

Eugene took a swing at Merriell, who ducked the punch easily, tearing off towards the front porch to avoid the beating he was about to get for that comment. Eugene was rather embarrassed that his parents employed two servants in their home, and Merriell had chosen (poorly) to poke at this insecurity for the sake of a laugh. 

“Let’s see how you like a bowl of jambalaya in your lap,” Eugene called after him, slowing down as he approached the house. Merriell had raced through the screen door, and was seated at the table by the time Eugene made it to the porch. Both were winded and red in the face, which did not go unnoticed by their hostess. 

“You two need to settle down,” Mrs. Williams clucked, shaking her head at the two, who shot dirty looks at each other from across the table. “Next time you come roarin’ in like that, you can take your supper out to eat with the hogs.” 

“Sorry, ma’am,” they chorused. Eugene slid into the seat usually occupied by Big Jim, who had taken his place on the bench. When their hostess had turned back towards the stove, Eugene kicked at Merriell under the table, landing a sharp blow to his shin. The foreman held back a yelp, knowing full well that he had gone too far with his teasing. As tolerant as Mrs. Williams had always been of their shenanigans, he didn’t want to push her patience. 

“If he don’t simmer down, I’ll go on a walk with you, Gene,” Big Jim offered, letting out a low laugh when he caught sight Merriell’s indignant expression; he would certainly not be deprived of his time with Eugene. Mrs. Williams interrupted the chatter at the table to set a bowl before each man and hang a ladle from the side of the pot, allowing the group to start their supper. 

“Where do you two wander off to, anyways?” Charlie wondered, ladling a large shrimp into his bowl. “I never met two fellas so dedicated to walkin’ the countryside as you two.” Mr. Williams appeared in the kitchen doorway, having changed out of his work clothes and into a clean pair of trousers. He accepted a bowl of jambalaya and took a seat beside Eugene. 

“Sometimes we go swimmin’ down in the creek, or we climb up trees to watch birds,” Eugene shrugged, taking a bite of his supper. “We just like to go out and about, take a break from workin’ and writin’.” Across the table, Merriell raised his eyebrows and gave an approving nod to Mrs. Williams for her effort with the meal. 

“This is so good, maybe we should start invitin’ the Missus to come on our walks from now on,” Merriell quipped, his blue eyes twinkling as he met Eugene’s gaze. By the way Eugene pressed his lips together to suppress a smile, Merriell figured that his friend had cooled down enough to forgive him for his rude jape. 

Now that the hectic energy between Eugene and Merriell had been resolved, the group started to chatter away about the happenings of the day. One of the more pressing matters had been the Yankees vs. White Sox game, which everyone had tuned into while they worked. Mr. Williams and Eugene had kept the truck running during their field visits, the radio volume cranked high and the windows rolled down so they could keep up with the score even in the field. Merriell carried around a battery-powered radio, which somehow got great reception in the barn. Much to the disappointment of half the men at the table, the Yankees had lost the game. Mrs. Williams sighed, not caring much either way; she had better things to worry about than baseball. 

“Whoever helps me with the dishes tonight can have an extra piece of pie for dessert,” she announced, her voice cutting through the play-by-play of the game her husband was giving Big Jim, who was relatively new to the world of the major leagues. 

Charlie and Lafayette both scrambled out of their seats, hurrying to scoop up plates from the table and carry them to the sink. Merriell and Eugene snickered quietly; no one else ever got up to help with the dishes, but for some reason, those two always jumped out of their seats as if it were a race to see who would get the extra helping of dessert. 

“Mrs. Williams, may we be excused, please?” Eugene requested, smiling up at his hostess. 

“Did we mention how delicious that jambalaya was, Missus? Good as my mama makes it, I tell ya.” Merriell added, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor as he waited for her response. Mrs. Williams rolled her eyes, but waved them away from the table. 

* * * * * 

On the banks of the creek, Merriell laid down on the grass, stretching out his arm to allow Eugene to curl up beside him. They’d chosen a secluded area, shielded from the road by thick trees. Having just finished wading through the creek, they kept the legs of their trousers rolled up to their knees. Eugene rested his head against Merriell’s shoulder and slung an arm across his chest. 

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier, Gene,” Merriell apologized, pressing a kiss to Eugene’s temple. “I know you’re not the kind o’ man to have money an’ servants and shit.” He stroked Eugene’s cheek with his thumb, sighing with satisfaction at the chance to hold him close. 

“How do you know I’m not?” Eugene questioned. “You’ve only known me a few months. For all you know, I could go home to Mobile after the harvent and let ‘Miss Lucy’ do everything for me.” His expression soured at the idea; there was no way he could ever regard his parents’ servants the same way after having worked alongside Charlie and Big Jim all summer. It just wasn’t right, he felt. 

“You gave it all up,” Merriell said slowly, plucking a mint leaf from the ground beside him and tucking it in his cheek. “You coulda taken the money they had for you, or let them pay for you to live in some nice place in town for the summer. But you gave it up to do what _you_ wanted. That’s how I know.” 

Indeed, Eugene had given up a lot to pursue his education. Despite his parents’ insistence that he accept a significant contribution from them towards his tuition, he declined, knowing that it would mean more to him if he had earned it himself. They had hoped he would go to law school, or medical school – that he would make something of his life; instead, he followed his interest in plants. In his mother’s eyes, he was making a huge mistake by turning down their help; what was he supposed to do with a master’s degree in plant science, she had asked, _teach_? Her other son had his life together, why couldn't he? 

“I’m glad I gave it up,” Eugene smiled, squeezing Merriell’s arm affectionately. “If I hadn’t, I’d have never met you.” The foreman felt his emotions welling up in his chest. He’d never felt this way about anyone before, and certainly hadn’t expected to fall for some grad student he met at his summer job. 

“Gene,” he started, pausing for a moment so as not to lose his composure, “what are we going to do once you go back to school?” Eugene’s breath caught in his throat. This was a topic he’d been avoiding all summer. In a month and a half, he would return to the University of Alabama to finish his degree, and Merriell would head back to New Orleans, where he rented a small apartment above the mechanic shop he worked in during the off-season. 

“What made you think of that?” Eugene hummed, turning onto his side to get a better look at the man beside him. Merriell’s skin had tanned significantly over the summer, which made his bright blue eyes stand out more in contrast. He gave one of the Cajun’s dark curls a gentle tug in an attempt to make him smile. 

“S’almost August, Gene,” Merriell frowned, leaning his forehead gently against his lover’s. “September’s gonna come real fast for us, you know.” He was right; they had met the last week of April, and three months had already flown by. 

“It’ll take a bit for me to put my thesis together,” Eugene acknowledged, dreading the idea of spending hours and hours drafting his paper at a typewriter. “But New Orleans isn’t so far from Mobile, Mer. I could take the bus and be there in less than three hours.” 

“And what’ll your mama think when you start skippin’ out on visitin’ her on the weekends, so you can take the bus out to see some mangy Nawlins mechanic?” Merriell snapped disdainfully. 

“Doesn’t matter what she thinks,” Eugene said firmly. He pressed a hard kiss to Merriell’s lips, hoping to silence him on the subject. “We’ll find a way, I promise you.” 

The two men settled into silence, allowing the birdsong and the bubbling of the creek to fill the gap in their conversation. Eugene rubbed his thumb in slow circles over Merriell’s hipbone, an absentminded gesture of affection. 

“Don’t close your eyes, Gene,” Merriell warned, watching as the man’s eyelids drooped with exhaustion. “If we fall asleep and someone comes lookin’ for us, we’ll be in real trouble.” His own body was weary after a long day of manual labour, but he knew the risk they were taking by being together, even in the secluded spot they had chosen. 

“We should head back soon,” Eugene murmured, nestling closer to Merriell. “But give me just a few more minutes to be close to you, okay?” He pressed his knee against Merriell’s legs, slipping it between them in an attempt to wrap himself in the man’s warm embrace. There was an unspoken fear between them that every time they were together might be the last time. 

“Love you,” Merriell hummed softly, resting his chin atop Eugene’s head. 

“Love you, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> The next update will be a time jump to sometime in 1941, after the attack on Pearl Harbor. Stay tuned to see how Snaf and Sledge manage their relationship when apart, and decide to join the Marines together.


End file.
